Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            And objectively, he knew why. He’d been brainwashed. Groomed. He knew about victims of childhood abuse. Objectively, he knew he was one.

            Never felt like it, though. He’d always felt powerful, like he was putting something over on Pastor and Eden. But he hadn’t been. Not really.

            In the end he was still tied to Pastor, even though he hated every cell in the old man’s body.

            In the end he was still tied to Eden, which was nothing but a prison. None of the fools who worshipped Pastor knew it, and if they did know they didn’t admit it, and if they admitted it and fought to get free, they mostly hadn’t survived it. But DJ had known the truth and had believed he’d made the choice to stay. For the money.

            Which he’d never demanded. He gave the now half-full whiskey bottle a bleary glance. It had been unopened when he’d started.

            He grabbed the bottle and took a healthy swig. Because who was really the fool?

            Once he’d taken over his father’s job delivering the drugs Eden produced, DJ had met Kowalski. He’d felt powerful dealing with Kowalski. Valued, even. The man had seen his potential and had taught him all of his tricks.

            Bullshit. He’d used DJ just like he’d used everyone else. He’d told DJ that he’d have a house of his own. Now he realized that Kowalski had just wanted someone else’s name on the deeds. On the leases. The bastard didn’t want anything to be traced back to him.

            We’re just his stooges. He’d fallen into Kowalski’s hands just like he’d fallen into Pastor’s.

            Because I’m the fool.

            “Not anymore,” he muttered, and if it sounded a little slurred, that was okay. Life owed him a little numbness, because everything had gone to shit.

            He’d missed killing Mercy. He’d missed killing Gideon. He still didn’t have Pastor’s money. Kowalski had tried to eliminate him. And he was front and center on the FBI’s radar.

            He sat in a stolen house, drinking stolen whiskey. He didn’t mind the stealing. But he’d had his own house. He’d had his own whiskey.

            “Not anymore,” he muttered again. The Feds had taken everything.

            The worst part of it was, DJ was on his own. He hadn’t realized how much he’d depended on Kowalski’s organization until he’d been cut off.

            Weapons, customers, safe houses. Hired muscle. Fellow operatives. Gone. He was alone.

            “So get them back.” He set the bottle aside and focused on his laptop. The document he’d been working on was nearly full. He’d noted the jobs that he’d pulled for Kowalski, the jobs that others had pulled, and the customers and suppliers he could recall.

            The jobs, the names of customers and suppliers, those filled the page. But DJ realized he didn’t know a single other member of the Chicos who had any power whatsoever.

            Only Kowalski.

            He laughed bitterly at his lists. Isolating a person from others? Making them dependent on a single source of financial and personal support?

            Classic tactics of abusers.

            He’d jumped from Pastor’s frying pan into Kowalski’s fire.

            “Not anymore,” he said again, so forcefully that he finally believed it himself.

            He’d find a way to make Kowalski do what he wanted for a change. He’d get the weapons. He’d get those damn bank codes.

            Then he’d blow everything up and shoot everyone down. It was time to take charge of his own damn life.




SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

            FRIDAY, MAY 26, 6:00 P.M.

            “I’m glad you’re all here.” Raeburn sat at the conference room table, which was more crowded than it had been Wednesday morning.

            Since DJ Belmont’s attempt on Gideon’s life that afternoon, the “Eden Team” had become significantly bigger. Molina sat at the table, although she’d told them that she was there to provide insight on Belmont’s sniper skills, rather than taking a leadership role. Tom wasn’t the only disappointed person at the table. It seemed that Molina, while not universally liked, was universally respected.